


I Will Meet You There

by pieta (ManicMoose)



Series: Full House 'Verse [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Character Death, Curtain Fic, Domestic, Established Relationship, Future Fic, M/M, Parenthood, Post-Series, Sexual Content, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-23
Updated: 2011-05-25
Packaged: 2017-10-17 05:34:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/173445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ManicMoose/pseuds/pieta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They've been fighting the same fight for their entire lives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place a month or two before Captain Oblivious, Jr., when the problems brewing between Sam and Dean began. I'm hoping this'll be either a two or three parter, but we'll see. Title comes from the quote by Jalal ad-Din Rumi, “Out beyond ideas of wrong doing and right doing, there is a field. I will meet you there.”

  “Goddamnit Sam, this is the worst possible idea you could have- no, just have, period, ever come up with. Hell, drinking demon blood was a better idea than this.” Dean growls at Sam as they stand, shoulder to shoulder in the archway, surveying the roomful of people. He squints around the room a bit, trying to locate the kids. Which he might have a much easier time doing if he had worn his new glasses, the way that Sam keeps nagging him to. But damned if Dean freaking Winchester is going to go running around in glasses like some giant nerd or, worse; old dude. He feels a little hum of relief when he finally spots them; all four standing nearby, next to the fireplace, quietly talking amongst themselves.

   “Oh my god Dean, you did _not_ just actually say that. It’s a _funeral_ Dean; it’s not like I decided we should take on an angry spirit armed with nothing but a wooden spoon.” Sam gapes at Dean incredulously, switching instantly to bitchface mode. Then he shakes his head in a ‘the things I put up with’ manner, like some sort of put-upon wife. Which, okay, if anyone was the wife in this… _situation_ that they have between them, than it would be Sam- no way is Dean anybody’s _wife._ And sure, maybe he puts up with a fair bit, _maybe_ , but there’s no reason to go acting all smug about it. It’s not like Dean doesn’t put up with plenty from Sam’s end. Like his nagging, demonstrated smugness, and terrible ideas. Which, point in case- Dean glowers at the room in general.

   “Oh it’s a funeral alright. _Ours._ ” He huffs uneasily, and glances up at Sam. “I just…This just isn't how we should be sending Bobby off. We should have given him a hunter’s funeral, just us and the kids.”

   “Dean, that wouldn't have exactly gone over too well. Things have changed a lot since the old days. First off, people would have noticed if Bobby just suddenly dropped off the map like that. And secondly, salting and burning family members on a pyre in the backyard isn’t strictly legal; which is something we actually have to consider these days. We cremated him and buried his ashes next to Karen. That's the best we could’ve done. And that's all he would have wanted, Dean. Really. Everybody’s here to pay Bobby some respect. He was like a father to us, and a Grandpa to the kids. Can you think of how it would have looked if we _didn’t_ do this? This is sort of one of those things that comes with being upstanding, Average-Joe citizens.” Sam points out wearily. Fleetingly, Sam thinks that Bobby would be making some sort of snarky comment highlighting Dean’s stupidity right about now, and the thought brings on a fresh wave of grief. He understands why Dean’s acting even testier than usual. He shifts his hand over slightly, from where it’s brushing against Dean’s between them; and, discreetly slipping his fingers into Dean’s palm, squeezes reassuringly for a moment. “It’s not going to be that bad. A couple more hours, and it’ll all be over.”

     “Oh right, just a couple more hours of _Hell_. God Sam, it’s like everybody who knows about, y’know, _us_ is mingling with everybody who doesn’t. If this isn’t a recipe for disaster, than I don’t know what is.” Dean pauses for a moment as a thought strikes him and he blanches. “What if someone says something to one of the kids?” He frowns thoughtfully. “Well, except for Johnny. We’re still safe if they say something to Johnny. I mean, I love the kid, but he’s just… how did Bobby used to put it again?”

            “Dumber than a sack of hammers.” Sam supplies with a fond grin.

            “Yeah. _That_. Thank God he’s got my good looks and charm. But one of the girls? Or Harley? I don’t even want to imagine…” He shakes his head as if to get rid of the thought. Sam feels a warm, distracting rush of affection when he notices how Dean’s freckles have grown endearingly obvious in his panic. “And don’t get me started on what’s going to go down if one of the kids says the wrong thing to the wrong person. I mean, there’s a lot of things we could use Sam, but a pitchfork-toting mob is not one of them.”

            “It’s going to be fine Dean. You’re seriously over-reacting. We’ve brought the kids out here dozens of times before, and we’ve never had any problems. Just don’t do something like fuck me across the dining room table, and we should be good.” Sam plays it defiantly nonchalant, trying to shrug off the little coil of panic he feels constrict inside at Dean’s suggestion.

            “ _Sam!_ ” Dean whisper-squawks, wildly twisting his head around to make sure no one might have overheard. And the rush turns into a goddamn flood, because he’s downright _adorable_ when he blushes like a little schoolgirl. “ _What the hell?_ Don’t freaking say shit like that here. And yeah, sure, we’ve brought the kids out before, but never like this; it’s like the whole freaking town, and every hunting contact we’ve ever known that’s social enough to go out in public is here. Under one roof. Usually, us and the kids are the only people for a five mile radius. I mean, wasn’t Bobby, like, the surly town drunk? Why are there so many people here? Are they here to gloat?” Dean narrows his eyes suspiciously at the collection of people milling about.

            “Deep breaths Dean. Take deep breaths. Let’s see how the kids are doing, hey?” Placing a broad, calming hand at the small of his back, Sam guides Dean gently in their direction.

    “Pitchforks Sammy, _pitchforks_.” Dean mutters grimly as they walk.

***

    “Sam! Dean!” A voice calls out from behind them. They turn as a unit, bracing themselves with identical grimaces in place as they watch Stan Ferguson, an old contact of Bobby’s, and once, their Dad’s, approach from across the room. “Long time no see boys. Well, you’re not exactly boys anymore, now are you?” Stan chuckles good-naturedly; _too_ good naturedly, in Dean’s humble opinion, for someone at a funeral. He contemplates how he could best slip ‘ _Christo’_ into the oncoming exchange unnoticed.

    “Haven’t been for a long while now, Stan.” He replies grimly. For example, how about _Apocalypse_ for two hundred, Alex. Not to mention, death, death, heaven, hell, demons, angels, , blood-addiction, more death, soullessness, rickety walls, a mortgage- which may or may not be the worst of it- and _oh yeah;_ three grown children. They haven’t exactly been toddling around carefree the past 25 years.

    “So this is the brood, eh? The next generation of Winchesters?” Stanley beams obliviously back, surveying the kids inquisitively. Dean and Sam both wince imperceptibly, preparing themselves mentally to run interference.

    "Yeah,” Dean fidgets with his tie uncomfortably. “Well, Harley here came to stay with us after his parents had a bad run in with a werewolf.” He waves his hands over Johnny and Mary's shoulders and continues, “These two are mine. And Ellie here is Sam's little girl.” He pats her head awkwardly and throws Sam a distressed look.         “Isn't that right Sam?” He states peculiarly; not quite a question, not quite an assertion. It pains Dean to distance himself from his little girl, however subtly, but the circumstances demand it, and he needs to make sure he and Sam are on the same page here. Sam's face twitches in an uncomfortable frown, but he nods faintly and reaches out a huge hand to smooth over Ellie's hair, drawing her into his side gently.

    “Sure is.”

    “Well, can't say I ever expected to see either of you boys end up like this. Much less the both of ya. But then I guess it's no big surprise either. The kinda women you end up with, more often than not, along the way in a life on the road...not exactly stellar mother material, hey? And this life is hard on womenfolk besides, unless they’re fixin’ to hunt themselves. Good you boys did right by ‘em kids tho’. We know how important family is don't we?”

    “Oh boy, do we ever.” Dean mutters, pretty much squirming in place. Sam pitches a tight but soothing glare in his direction.

    “Family's the most important thing there is,” Sam agrees firmly with the old hunter, nodding his head solemnly and reaching up to squeeze Dean’s shoulder briefly. Ferguson’s face grows solemn, as if he’s just suddenly recalling the grounds for this impromptu reunion.

    “Well, Bobby was always mighty proud of you boys. After your D-“

            “Hey Kids! Why don't you go into the kitchen, and fix yourselves some plates. I just realized none of you have eaten all day.” Dean interrupts suddenly, an almost hysterical edge to his voice. He claps his hands down on Johnny and Mary’s shoulders firmly enough to make them start, then begins herding all of them hastily toward the kitchen with pushy hands, eye twitching. “And one of you bring me a whiskey!”

***

    The kitchen is blissfully free of people, and it’s actually kind of a relief to be exiled to it in Johnny’s opinion. If he had to hear ‘I’m so sorry for your loss’ one more time, he was going to lose it. At this point, he doesn’t even care if it’s going to get him in serious shit with Dad and Uncle Sammy; he needs a drink- bad. He gets down two glasses, and grabs the bottle of good stuff down from above the fridge. Just as he starts pouring, Harley sidles up beside him and wordlessly sets a third down. He doesn’t say a word, and neither does Harley, but he feels comforted all the same. They both understand, and they don’t have to talk about it; they can just stand and feel the grief side by side. 

    “Is Dad embarrassed by me or something?” Ellie frets plaintively behind him. It’s unlike her to be quite so self-absorbed or whiney; and if this sudden transformation had come at any other time, he’d tease her mercilessly. But right now, he understands. It’s a hell of a lot easier to focus on the individual hits, instead of all the pain combined.

    “No, sweetie. He's just… stupid.” Mary reassures her calmly; she’s always so goddamn together and capable. He busies himself fixing up Dad's drink the way he likes it- light on ice, heavy on liquor- and cleaning up, tuning out whatever perfectly thought out reassurance she's presenting Ellie with. Her unfailing ability to reason and assure is downright exhausting sometimes, and he's too wrung out to bother feeling inadequate right now. “It’s hard for him, you know? All of Grandpa’s friends and all of these people… their not all going to be so accepting about him and Sam, you understand? Dad just doesn’t want to deal with any of that shit today, and he doesn’t know how to handle it any better.” She has her arm around Ellie’s shoulder, and squeezes gently before moving to the fridge to get out the food. Johnny adds a supportive squeeze of his own as he heads back out with Dad’s whiskey. That’s more on his level.  Ellie bobs back gratefully, and manages a small, rueful smile.

            “Daddy looked pissed.”

***

    It’s much later, after the last of the guests have left, after they’ve tided up the main room, and stacked the dishes in the sink. The kids even helped out willingly before retreating to their respective bedrooms. They all worked silently for the most part though; Bobby’s absence in the house weighing heavy on them all. There’s suddenly an aching hollow in their family; inside of each of them; and no one wants to prod that ache. Dean and Sam had sat quietly together in Bobby’s library for a bit, breathing in the scent of gun oil and old books. Their memories drifting lazily through the years in the hush; all the times spent together with Bobby in the space seeming innumerable. Added up, they’d spent more time here with Bobby than they ever had with their own father, in his lifetime. The comparison is daunting. John’s loss had been nearly unbearable; but his absence, which they had already been accustomed to, left far less of a hole in their lives than this. In their nomadic days, this house was the closest thing to a home, outside of the Impala, that they ever had. And in the settled life they’ve lead for so long now, Bobby has played a pretty significant role. It feels a little like coming home to find that the house is empty; stripped of everything that makes it home. Eventually, Sam douses the fire, and they numbly make their way upstairs to the room they’ve shared here since they were children. They push the twin beds together without discussing it, and begin to strip, tossing their stifling suit jackets onto the chair by the window. Sam reaches out affectionately to loosen Dean’s tie, slipping it off over his head. Dean gives him a weary smile and moves to return the favour; but not before pulling Sam in close to kiss him softly. Sam lets out a quiet little sob against his mouth, and grabs a hold of Dean’s lapels to haul him so their bodies are flush against one another. They lock their mouths together, both full need and desperate for comfort. They’ve rarely allowed themselves this here at Bobby’s, afraid of being caught out; but it doesn’t matter now.

    Dean pushes Sam back just a little, enough so that they can easily set to work on getting the ridiculous amount of fabric separating them gone. Sam works Dean’s buttons open with a single-minded focus that he usually reserves for research; already yanking out Dean’s shirt tails and shoving the shirt back off his shoulders before he can even get through half of Sam’s. Dean catches up to speed, and they manage to make quick work of belts, slacks and shorts- toeing off socks as they tumble back onto the sheets. They explore each other’s skin, carefully cataloguing every inch with hands and lips and teeth. But this isn’t the time for leisurely, drawn out foreplay, and Sam’s climbing off the beds to grab the lube from his duffle before long. Dean rolls over wordlessly, and Sam feels his insides melt into boiling pool of need at the sight of him sprawled yieldingly across the mattresses, gazing back at Sam over one shoulder. He climbs back into bed, covering Dean’s body with his own, one knee nudging Dean’s thighs apart gently. He works him open quickly, which is exactly the way they both want it, and then he’s lining himself up against his entrance and pushing in. His brain is momentarily fried, as always, by the scorching heat inside, muscles clenching him obscenely tight. After all these years, it never ceases to amaze him, how good this is; the feeling of being buried inside of Dean, _his brother, Dean._ Maybe it’s one of those, ‘bad things feel the best’ paradoxes, but he’s learned he doesn’t give a damn. He’d even gladly go back to hell in a heartbeat if it meant never giving up having Dean like this, all needy and spread out beneath him. He breathes in the clean scent of Dean’s hair, mouthing the warm skin at Dean’s nape as he tries to collect himself. Dean’s breathing harshly, clenching even tighter around Sam as he wiggles ever so slightly; tense thighs struggling to support Sam’s weight in their awkward position. He lets out a frustrated whimper that has Sam’s blood fizzing in his veins, and Sam takes pity on him. He shifts them so that their both on their knees. Dean’s face is pressed against the mattress, and Sam’s hard against Dean’s back; one hand reaching up under Dean’s arm to clutch his shoulder as leverage for his thrusts, the other’s fingers laced tightly with Dean’s.

    Sam drives into him hard, his hand on Dean’s shoulder helping set a brutal rhythm, which Dean grunts in pleased agreement to, right from the start. All that his mind can manage besides is the usual senseless litany of _wantloveneedmine_ that runs on repeat whenever he’s got Dean like this. They’re both gasping raggedly, Sam mouthing the hard line of Dean’s shoulder blade when Dean starts making the little noises he does whenever he’s close. Without warning or question, Sam pulls out abruptly; flipping Dean deftly and pressing back inside immediately, before he can even whine in displeasure. He strains downward and Dean arches up so that that their lips can meet, mashing together in a hot, violent clash of tongues and teeth. Sam resumes his frantic pace; reaching between them to fist Dean’s hard, twitching cock ruthlessly. Without anything but the sweat building between them, the friction is almost painful. But that’s exactly what they need right now; just few strokes though and Dean’s gone, tensing up before he spasms hard beneath Sam, moaning jaggedly into his mouth. Sam follows immediately, thrusting in as deep as possible one last time, and holding himself there, before collapsing over Dean limply. They lay tangled together for a while, until their laboured pants begin to settle into deep, even breathing. They’ve gone so long without speaking that Sam starts the sudden sound when Dean pipes up, still sounding a little breathless and fucked-out.

    “Oh my god, dude, did we just have life-affirming sex? I feel like I’ve stumbled into a Lifetime movie.” He announces in an appalled tone, stroking Sam’s hair where he’s sleepily resting his head against Dean’s chest.

    “That wasn’t like any Lifetime movie I’ve ever seen. A little too X-rated.” Sam chuckles into Dean’s chest, rubbing his cheek against the smooth, firm muscles. The movement makes him notice the rapidly cooling, drying come all over their middles, and he wrinkles his nose a little, reaching down beside the bed to grab his boxers to clean them up with.

    “I always knew you watched that channel! It was just a matter of time before you slipped up and admitted it,” Dean responds; his voice rough, but full of gleeful mischief. Sam jabs him in the ribs feebly, but laughs low and deep all the same before wrapping an arm snug around his waist. They lie together silently again for a while, before Sam props his chin on Dean’s sternum and hums thoughtfully.

    “You know, I’ve been thinking. Now that Bobby’s gone…you know we don’t have to be so careful about things anymore.”

    “Well that’s rich Sam; his ashes are barely in the ground, and you’ve already been thinking ahead?” Dean scowls down at him, the shadow of grief returning to his eyes as he tenses up beneath Sam. Sam wriggles off to lie beside him, propping up onto one elbow so he can glare defensively back.

    “Jesus Dean, it’s not- I miss Bobby just as much as you do, but are you telling me you haven't thought if it at all? Now he's gone... He was the last person who knew about us, except for Cas, and he doesn’t really count. We don't have to play it safe, we don't have to hide and pretend anymore. Don't you want that? I mean, we're in our _fifties_ dude. It would be nice to finally acknowledge each other a little more publicly after all these years.”

            “So, what? You wanna march in the pride parade Sam? Hang a rainbow flag outside our door?” Dean barks back, biting off a bitter laugh as he pushes himself up off the bed.

    “No! Nothing like - I don’t give a shit about any of that.”  Sam shakes his head and clambers after him, sitting on the edge of one mattress and holding his palms up defensively.

    “Then what exactly do you want?” Dean demands expectantly as he yanks on a pair of jeans and a clean t-shirt from his duffle. Sam feels transported back to the early days of their relationship; back to when Dean was running out the door more often than not. He grasps frustratedly for the right words; the right thing to say to make Dean understand.

    “Jesus Dean. I just want to be able to, I don’t know; hold your hand in public, refer to you as something other than just ‘my Dean; not have to worriedly check for potential witnesses every time I want to kiss you or touch you- is that really so terrible?” He stares dejectedly up at Dean, who’s staring back with an equal amount of panic in his eyes.

            “I don’t know when it became so easy for you Sam. I love you, okay? You know that.But I just… I just can’t be- As much as I fucking wish I could, I’m never going to be able to stop thinking of you as my little brother. I’m never going to be able to stop thinking that every person is just going to look at us and know. And I can’t handle that. I just _can’t_.” He sounds utterly broken, in a way he hasn’t for years. Sam feels his shoulders fall, and he breaks eye contact to focus on the floor, blinking back the unexpected sting of tears in his eyes at Dean’s words. He’d thought, _hoped_ , that that was something they’d gotten past this a good decade ago.

            “You know what Dean? I’m just tired of it, you know? I mean, we’ll always be brothers. _You’ll always be my big brother_. I can’t ever forget that, even if I wanted to. But you’re so much more to me now; you have been for so long... I mean, before- I get it; it would have been dangerous for us to take chances, and risk everything. But now? The kids are pretty much grown up, and damn it, Dean; it’s not like people don’t already think it already. It’s just confirming what they already know.” He sighs, pushing his hand through his hair, and looking up at Dean earnestly. “We have this life together, that we’ve built, and… I’m done thinking it’s wrong, and I’m done feeling guilty. I just want to enjoy what we have, for however long we have left.”

            “And what if I can’t do it Sam?” Dean challenges soberly, his hand already on the doorknob. Ready to bolt. “What then?”

            “Then maybe we need to think about what the hell we’re still doing here.” Sam bites back, regretting the words the instant they leave his mouth. But it’s already too late. Dean’s gone before he even finishes. 

***

            Dean is alone in the kitchen; washing the pile of dishes in an attempt to calm himself, humming Zeppelin under his breath, when he hears it. The slightest sound of rustling wings, the faint displacement of air and, without even turning to look; Dean knows that Castiel is there. He finishes washing the plate he’s working on, then places it on the rack, turning to face Cas as he dries his hands on a towel. He can remember when Cas’ way of suddenly appearing used to faze him, but now, not so much. Of course, it might have something to do with Cas’ having developed an understanding about personal bubbles over the years. But there is something new growing more disconcerting, as time goes by. Dean knows, outside of vanity, that the years have been good to him and Sam. They’ve aged pretty damn well, especially considering the shit-storm that was the first half of their lives. They both get regularly pegged for being a good ten years younger. But Cas- he looks the same today as he did twenty years ago walking into that barn. Right down to that goddamn, ever-present trench coat. It’s a good thing angels don’t have to deal with pesky human things like B.O., because Dean’s pretty sure that outfit hasn’t seen a washing machine since before Jimmy Novak shrugged into it two decades ago. He doesn’t even want to imagine how _that_ would smell. But that’s beside the point; seeing Cas standing there in the doorway of Bobby’s, looking like that, takes Dean back to when the world was falling down all around them. To when he and Sam were falling apart like they never had before. It’s freaky as hell for a moment, and he fumbles for words.

            “Cas. Didn’t think you were gonna show, man.”

            “I thought it would be best if I did not attempt to interact with a large group of people,” Cas slants his head lightly in apology, before awkwardly holding out a pre-packaged casserole. “This is for you; I believe it’s supposed to be a customary offering in times of death? The woman at the grocery store said so.” Dean can’t help but snort a little, picturing Cas standing awkwardly in the supermarket, interrogating some poor, dumbfounded attendant. Cas raises the bottle of whiskey in his other hand. “I also brought this. I have found it offers a great deal of comfort in such difficult circumstances”

            “Cas, buddy; I always knew that unexpected research of yours would pay off eventually.” Dean beams at him, striding up to take the bottle of off his hands, and wave him toward the fridge with the casserole while he grabs two of the freshly washed glasses. They settle in at the kitchen table, and Cas watches as Dean pours generously into both glasses.

            “I am sorry about Bobby. He was truly a good man.” Cas accepts the glass when Dean hands it to him, meeting Dean’s eyes in that solemn way of his.

            “That he was.” Dean lifts his tumbler in a toast before taking a swallow. He cocks his head and purses his lips thoughtfully before adding, “Damn stubborn old son of a bitch if there ever was one. But he knew what was what. I’ll bet he’s enjoying his little slice of heaven as we speak.”

            “I’m sure that he is,” Cas sips carefully at his drink. He rests his glass on the table for a moment and questions Dean gravely. “How are the children handling the situation? I would like to come again to visit them tomorrow, when it isn’t so late.”

            “They would love that. They’re, uhh- they’re…” Dean tosses back the rest of his whiskey bracingly. “They’re coping, y’know? Except for Harley, they’ve never really lost anybody before. But I… Is it weird that, even though I hate seeing them hurting, I’m glad that that’s how it is? I wouldn’t want them to be used to that kind of crap, the way that Sam and I always were.”

            “I believe that it’s perfectly understandable, Dean. You and Sam experienced a great deal of difficulty. No rational being wishes want their offspring to suffer needlessly.”

            “Except for the big guy upstairs, eh buddy? Or I guess; he just doesn’t give a damn.” Dean refills his glass, topping off Castiel’s proffered one as well as he winces remorsefully at Cas’ wounded expression. “Sorry. I shouldn’t prod old wounds. I was just being an ass. Anyways,” he scowls ruefully as he salutes Cas with his drink. “We can’t all take it as well as Sam has.”

            “Sometimes Dean, I think that you are still too hard on your brother.” Cas declares before chugging gratefully at his own drink, obviously uncomfortable with the path this conversation is taking.

            “Maybe,” Dean shrugs in the nonchalant way that he definitely doesn’t feel. “Have I ever told you about the summer that Sam and I spent here with Bobby when I was fourteen? Boy, is that a story.” He scrubs his free hand through his short, greying hair and grins wide Cas.

            “No, you haven’t. But I believe I would like to hear it.” Cas smiles back serenely, and leans forward in his seat, lifting his glass to his lips.

            “So, there was this farmer living down the road with a hot blonde daughter, right? And…”

***

            Sam showers, and dries his hair painstakingly, trying to kill as much time as possible. After all these years, he knows that it’s a pretty futile hope to think that Dean might walk back  though the door and face this dilemma head-on, but hey, it _has_ happened before. Okay, so maybe it’s happened about as frequently as a total eclipse, but he’s got to cling to something. He makes their bed, deliberately leaving the smaller frames pushed together; He’s not about to let this escalate the level of sleeping in separate beds just yet if he can help it. That stage is always a miserable one to get past if they reach it, and it would definitely be a step in the opposite direction from what he’s working toward here. It’s been an hour or two now though, and he knows he’s got to finally bite the bullet and go hunt Dean down to talk this out. Corralling Dean for any kind of serious talk, much less a serious talk about the state of their relationship, is about as much fun as visiting the dentist.  For a root canal. Without novocaine. But it has to be done. At least he knows that Dean is probably in the house, because he hasn’t heard the Impala starting up. He peeks out the window in the hall, and sure enough, she’s still sitting in front of the house, looking sleek and imposing in the October night. The weather is miserable looking, rain pouring down in buckets, fitting for the occasion, in Sam’s opinion. It also cuts down the likelihood of Dean having taken off with the dogs for a late-night walk. He jogs down the stairs and spotting the light on in the kitchen, makes a beeline down the hall towards it.

            “Dean, I-” He freezes in the doorway as the table comes into view. “Cas. Hey, I uh, didn’t know you were here.”

            “Sam. It’s good to see you again.” Cas smiles up at him blearily, clearly half-way to Tipsy Town. His face scrunches up slightly as frowns pensively before adding, “I wish the circumstances could have been better.”

            “He decided to skip the party, Sammy. We’ve been paying our respects to Bobby the good old-fashioned way.” Dean lifts his half-empty glass a bit unsteadily, gesturing to the now half-empty bottle sitting between them on the table.

            “Have you, now. That’s, um…” Sam raises his brows, and stares at the bottle uneasily; floundering for the right words, or reaction, tamping down on the funny little bubble of jealously and irritation that he feels in his gut.

            “Because you know, that’s what you traditionally do when someone you love dies. You sit around together, spend some time remembering them. You don’t look for a bright side.” Dean interrupts harshly, his voice and eyes full of silent accusation as he glares defiantly up at Sam with red-rimmed eyes. Sam is just opening his mouth to argue when Cas chimes in.

            “You’re welcome to join us, Sam. I am very sorry for your loss.” For a second, Sam thinks he’s just blissfully oblivious to the tension bristling between them. But when he glances at him, he sees that Cas’ eyes have something sombre and knowing hiding in behind the mildly inebriated glaze.

            “Sam sure isn’t,” Dean rejoins, and Sam’s eyes snap to him furiously.

            “Goddamn it Dean! That’s _not_ what I fucking meant and you know it!” He explodes at Dean, dimly aware that this is _exactly_ what he’d wanted to avoid when he headed down here looking for him. But the thing about them is; they’ve always been terribly impulsive when it comes to each other, and right now, he’s just so goddamn sick of Dean misreading everything he says.

            “Isn’t it?” Dean growls back carelessly.

            “Perhaps I should leave?” Castiel begins to rise apprehensively from his chair., his gaze darting between them.

            “No, Cas, you stay, unwind a little. I’m going out. I’ll be back.” Sam holds out his hand, gesturing for Cas to sit back down and levels a glare at Dean. Then he turns on heel stalks back down the hall to the side-table by coat rack. Yanking on his jacket, his hand hovers over the keys to the Jeep before passing over them and snatching up the Impala’s instead. And, if the walls quake slightly as he slams the door violently, well, he can always blame the weather.


	2. Chapter 2

    Sam drives aimlessly for a few hours, wipers fighting back desperately against the downpour. When the roads get a little too slick for comfort, he pulls over to a little all-night roadside diner to drink hot black coffee and watch the rain bounce off the Impala’s freshly-waxed exterior. It feels a little bit like the old days; the fighting, the running out the door, the cheap run-down diner with slightly burnt tasting coffee. Even the waitress looks pretty much the same as all the others that have served them over the years. He feels the sudden urge to call Bobby, and has to tamp down on the huge welling up of grief. The hollow space where Bobby once was feels like a yawning void, everything clinging to the edges to keep from tumbling in. Through the decades, whenever he and Dean have needed help- with a case, with each other; Bobby was always there. There’s no one left to talk to who can really understand; he supposes he can call Rachel, complain to her about Dean’s failings as a partner. It’s not like he could have called up Bobby and said, “Hey Bobby; Dean doesn’t want us to come out officially as gay lovers, because of the residual guilt he feels about the gay incest- what do you think I should do?”

    But, with the exception of that whole can of worms, Bobby understood them. Understood their personalities, their history; he was the closest thing to a stable parent figure that they had had. Someone they could always depend on just to be there. Sure, he might have complained about it from time to time, but he was always there to listen and advise whenever they reached the point of wanting to strangle each other. Hell, Bobby had pretty much ended up stepping into their Mom’s shoes- and doesn’t that conjure an awkward mental image. The point was; he took on the role she would have played in their lives if she had lived. A much gruffer take on it, Sam hopes, but still. Even if he couldn’t come out an elaborate on the exact nature of his and Dean’s disagreement- as he frequently hadn’t been able to in the years since they had gotten all tied up in this crazy thing- Bobby would somehow still know just the right thing to put Sam back into the right mindset to deal with Dean again.

    The rain’s slowed down to a drizzle now, and the half-drunk cup of coffee he’s clutching has gone completely cold. He leaves a few bills on the table; enough to cover the tab and have a sizeable tip left over for the tired looking waitress. She looks up from her novel as he heads for the door, and they share a brief nod and smile. He starts up the Impala, listening to the purr of her engine for a few minutes, as if she’ll somehow be able to impart her knowledge on the inner workings of Dean. If anyone would have the inside scoop; the cipher to unlock that mystery, it would be her. Because Sam certainly doesn’t. But she stays mum, and he pulls out of the lot and back onto the highway, heading back in the direction of Singer Salvage.

***

    When he pulls into the yard, he parks up next to the Jeep; close enough to the door that he doesn’t get drenched getting inside. The glow of the television set spills out from the front room, but when he steps into the archway, it’s empty. Cas seems to enjoy indulging in terrible late night television, with all the oddities of mankind that it delivers, but even after all these years, he hasn’t quite grasped the intricacy of always remembering to turn it off when he leaves. Dean’s no better- too many years of falling asleep to the muted blue glow and low murmur a hard habit to break. Sam switches the set off and mounts the stairs slowly; carefully avoiding all the creaky spots that he and Dean painstakingly documented as children one summer, all in the name of sneaking out to explore the yard in the night. They haven’t changed much over the years, the wood settled in its place, the passage of time wearing only slightly. Sam wishes he could say the same for him and Dean.

    The door to their bedroom is open a crack, but the lights are off and there’s only the faint gleam of moonlight coming through to the hall. Sam pushes the door open silently, and stands in the doorway, relief flooding through him at the sight of the Dean-shaped lump under the covers of the still-together beds.

    He strips down to his shorts quietly and efficiently, listening intently for the hushed sound of Dean’s breathing. It’s measured, but a bit too quiet and fast; Sam has spent his entire life listening to Dean sleep, memorizing the morse-code of his breathing. He knows that Dean is awake, and Dean knows that he knows, but the silent tension in the room is palpable, and Sam could swear that the anxious pounding of his heart is echoing off the walls. He pulls the covers up and slips into bed behind Dean, and they both lie there, stiff and unmoving for a moment.

    “If you so much as dinged her Sam, so help me,” Dean growls suddenly into the darkness, the flood of his voice swallowing the silence in an instant. “Taking off with her like that, in _this_ weather.” Sam catches the tiny, almost imperceptible hitch in his breath as he continues, and he knows what’s really being said here. _Don’t you do that to me anymore, Sammy. Don’t you make me fucking sick with worry that something bad’s going to happen to you._ Sam sighs softly and slides forward, tucking his knees into the backs of Dean’s and looping his arm across his middle to pull him snug against his chest. Dean goes stubbornly silent, determinedly feigning sleep, but Sam hears the little stifled hum when he noses against his favourite little spot on the soft skin of Dean’s nape. The fight may not be over- because Sam certainly isn’t letting this one go- but for now, they need each other. In the morning they can return to the battlefield, this armistice in the dark just a hazy memory.

***

    In the morning, it’s a quiet subdued bustle, a throwback to the days of Sam and Dean stopping in on their endless journey around the country. It’s completely alien compared to the boisterous chaos that breakfast at Bobby’s has always been since they started bringing the kids to visit. Coordinating breakfast for seven is usually no small feat, but today they work quietly together like a well-oiled machine. Sam would choose the noisy, happy calamity over this any day.

    Dean shuffles into the kitchen prickly and hung-over, face scrunched up in a pained squint as he grabs himself a coffee. He grunts gratefully at the plate of bacon, eggs and toast that Sam plunks down in front of him. Otherwise, he evades eye contact blatantly, and keeps any sort of verbal communication between them to minimum. Every time Sam turns away though, he feels his eyes on him, and even manages to catch him staring out of the corner of his eye. But whenever he turns to face him, Dean's suddenly looking somewhere else entirely; a certified master at the art of avoidance. The whole thing is really fucking stupid and frustrating, and Sam feels like he's back in junior high school, because if Dean honestly thinks that Sam isn't perfectly tuned to him and his every move, he seriously has another thing coming. Things brighten a bit when Cas appears halfway into breakfast and manages to wedge himself in between Dean and Ellie at the table, complacently accepting the toast and bacon strips that the kids force on him. 

    He chews them absent-mindedly and chats with the kids in that socially awkward manner of his, and Sam is struck by how endearing it is that he gives in so thoughtlessly to their whims; how he mysteriously seems to take such pleasure in their company. Dean likes to chalk it up to a ‘weird profound-bond angel thing’, but Sam thinks that’s a load of crock, and that it has a lot more to do with lingering remnants of  Jimmy’s fatherly instincts inside somewhere. Now that he’s significantly less burdened by cutthroat heavenly politics; he’s finally able to relax and enjoy his freedom to directly interact with humans. To learn more about his father through these strange little beings that he created. And it doesn’t get a whole lot stranger than kids, in Sam’s opinion.

    After they finish breakfast and tidy up, they move on to the task they’ve all been dreading; going through the house. It’s a funny feeling, knowing that everything surrounding them belongs to him and Dean now. They’ll probably turn it into some sort of hunter’s safe house – Bobby too much work put into securing this place to let it go to waste, but their happy where they’ve settled. Unfortunately, another one of the pesky details of being a regular Joe is that they can only take so much time off of work, and they’re not about to leave Bobby’s things mouldering until they can get around to coming out again. Until they can get someone set up here to take care of the place, they’re going to need to figure out what to do with everything.

    Sam sequesters himself in the den to go through the vast collection of books and papers that Bobby’s amassed over the years. Dean and Cas take the attic, while Johnny and Harley are tasked with hauling things up from the basement; Dean’s given the panic room, with all its terrible memories, a wide berth for years and apparently has no intention to make an exception now. Cas even strips off his coat and jacket, and watching an angel of the lord carry boxes down the stairs in his shirtsleeves is oddly comforting, rather than peculiar, like Sam might have expected. They pile everything into the front room, and Mary and Ellie take on the arduous job of sorting through everything; determining what to throw out, what to leave, and what Dean and Sam should take a look at. They all work steadily for a good long while, and once the front room is full, Dean and Cas take the boys out back to set up for a bonfire to deal with everything they don’t want to haul out to the dump.  Sam’s busily rifling through a series of Bestiaries, deciding whether they’re better off here or in their own library at home when he hears the small commotion in the other room.

    “Dad! Sam! Come and look what we found!” Mary hollers, every inch her father, and Ellie sticks her head into the den demandingly for good measure before disappearing again. Sam clears his lap carefully, and picks his way around the stacks of books littering the floor. The girls appear to be sifting through the box of effects that Dean collected from Bobby’s room, clutter spilled haphazardly across their laps. There are a few framed pictures balanced on their knees, which surprises Sam- he never pegged Bobby for being the framed picture type. When he stops in the doorway, Mary turns the frame in her hands to face him. He’s confronted by two young boys grinning out at him, perched on what looks like Bobby’s front steps, arms slung carelessly over each other’s shoulders, old Rumsfeld lolling contentedly at their feet.

    “Is this you and Dad, Sam?”Mary smiles at him, wiggling the picture gently.  Sam crosses the room to stand beside her, taking the frame into his own hands to peer at it.

    “I…yeah, it looks like it is,” he swallows, staring down at the bright young faces so oblivious to all the pain and hardship ahead of them in life.

    “Wow! You’ve totally known each other for _forever_.” Ellie marvels down at the photo, clearly fascinated with the small glimpse into her parents’ past.

    “Forever would definitely be my word of choice.” Dean grumbles unexpectedly from the hall entrance, where he leans against the doorjamb, crossing his arms. “Been trying to shake him for decades, but he just won’t leave me alone.” Sam stare at him uneasily, painfully aware of just how far from the truth that is. Dean’s only ever been the one to leave once, and even then, only when they’d hit absolute rock-bottom. It makes him sick now, to think of all the times he’s left; all the times he’s run away from Dean, and everything between them. When he thinks of it, maybe it’s no wonder that Dean is afraid to give himself over completely. Sam’s pretty sure nothing he can say will make Dean believe, once and for all, that he’s not going anywhere- that he doesn’t _want_ to go anywhere- ever again.  Dean’s eyes fall to the picture in Sam’s hands, and he swallows visibly before going pale.

            It’s always a bit of a slap in the face for them, when they’re confronted with the past like this- but especially for Dean. Even if Sam is a fully grown man now- over grown, if Dean’s regular accusations can be believed- and had been damn close to being so already when they started this, Dean tends to lapse into a bizarre mindset of thinking he’s some kind of predator; a sick pervert, who corrupted and took advantage of a little boy. Never mind the fact that Sam was a good inch taller than him, and had already left his _virginity_ behind in South Carolina with Wendy Carlson by the time they first _kissed._ Dean will always feel guilty about ‘defiling’ his baby brother; not having the willpower to resist his twisted urges. Hell, even Sam feels that weird coil of clammy discomfort in his own gut whenever he really thinks about how messed up they really are. But usually, they can sort of ignore it- push it down beneath everything, and try to forget about the boys they once were.

    “There’s a few more!” Mary informs him excitedly, oblivious to Dean’s reaction, thrusting a couple of frames at him. One is Dean at twenty; all cocky, cool indifference as he leans against the side panel of the Impala, taken a few years before Sam left for Stanford. He knows because not only did he take it, but it’s the same picture that  lived, hidden away in the back of his sock drawer with his scythe his entire time away. The third one is of himself, taken that same summer, poring over some book in Bobby’s library, a golden glow of sunshine filtering through the window onto his face. He remembers the photo, and not realizing that Dean had snuck it until he developed the roll. In fact, he distinctly recalls tearing it up in a frustrated rage, so Bobby must’ve found the negatives he’d left behind and redeveloped them. What he remembers most vividly is that summer; long before the desperate, heady night when everything between them finally spilled over. It had been hot and stormy; the weather mirroring the inexplicable knife’s edge tension beginning to simmer between them. A tension that Sam had blamed on himself, and the sick desire positively _itching_ beneath his skin, tormenting him. When he discovered the shot, all he could see was Dean’s obnoxious big brother teasing; a carelessly cruel ignorance of the burning confusion that twisted Sam’s insides with guilt. But, looking at it now, through the lens of their years together and everything between them; he sees something else. Something he never would have even dared to suspect back then. He looks over at Dean searchingly, and the shamed look in his eyes confirms it. It’s the first time that Sam’s had any sort of concrete proof of just how long Dean’s been struggling with this thing between them. It’s the worst possible time to make this discovery, really. Sam wants nothing more that to force Dean to talk about this; to make it very goddamn clear for the last time that the need between them has always been a two-way street, regardless of who made the first move.

    But having it out in front of the kids and exposing their deepest, darkest secret is going to do absolutely nothing on the winning-Dean-over front. On the screwing-things-up-to-an-irreparable-level front, sure, but that’s really not what Sam’s aiming for here. Still, he needs to say _something_ , because it almost physically hurts to just stand there and watch Dean draw into his shell in mortification, disgust with himself written all over his venerable face.

    “Dean, I -” Sam ventures softly, taking the slightest step toward him before he sees the shutters slam down, in Dean’s eyes. He pulls away from the doorframe, and shoves his hands into his pockets brusquely.

    “The fire’s going pretty strong. If there’s anything else you want to add to it, now’s the time.” He growls, scuffing his boot against the carpet edging as levels a serious warning look in Sam’s direction. The girls look between them uneasily, suddenly aware of the pulsating tension in the room, but completely mystified as to its cause. Sam clears his suddenly tight throat, and hands the pictures back to Mary hastily.

    “Um, yeah, there’re a couple things in the corner here. I’ll, um, bring them on out."

    “You do that.” Dean bites off before turning on heel and stomping out, leaving Sam standing awkwardly next to their befuddled daughters, surrounded by the detritus of all their shared memories.

 *******   


    It takes two days, but they finally manage pack up everything they’ve decided to take home with them, and lock the rest up in safe storage nearby. Two more nights of crawling into bed next to Dean after spending the day in an awkward stand-off; Sam chasing after him in a pathetic attempt to address their issues, while Dean runs in the opposite direction like he has hellhounds at his heels all over again. In the dark though, they press close, breathing the scent of each other's skin in the silence, unable to resist the need for one another's touch. When he climbs the stairs up to their bedroom each night, Sam expects to find their beds pushed apart, but both nights, the makeshift double bed remains rumpled and untouched from the morning. Apparently, despite any uncertainties Dean may have, the habit of falling asleep next to Sam is too difficult to break. It’s enough to make Sam want to scream when the morning comes, and they lay in bed stiffly for a few moments, neither saying a word before rolling apart to start all over again. When they finally finish, it’s not as much of a challenge getting the kids together and ready to make the long drive back home as it used to be when they were small; but it hasn’t improved that much either. Even after all sorting of the big-ticket items, they still have the added task of making sure that the house is clean and cleared of perishables, and secured against the winter.

    Cas vanishes with a soft rustle of wings the night before they leave, heading back to his own responsibilities; but not before the kids extract a promise from him to visit them again soon, at home. Dean and Johnny take the Impala, just enough room for the two of them amongst everything that they’ve crammed into her. Meanwhile, Sam, Harley and the girls pile into the similarly stuffed Jeep, none of them relishing the idea of the long drive home in such cramped conditions. They’ve planned out their stops along the way though; a lifetime of endless driving having prepared them for times like this. They manage to hit the road before noon, with plans to meet up for lunch in a little truck-stop diner that they’re familiar with just outside of Mason City. It takes the kids about a half hour tops to conk out, and the sound of their even breathing fills the car, leaving Sam alone with his thoughts.

    Sam knows that they’re going to have to address what happened the other day in the front room, over the pictures- the ones that Sam has carefully tucked away under his seat, ready to be given new places in his study at home. In fact, they’re not only going to have to address the whole nasty can of worms that they’ve inadvertently uncovered, but a certain growing problem by the name of Julia back at home; because damned if Sam is going to keep on living like this until the day one of them dies- not when they’ve come as far as they have. He’s wrapped up in trying to figure out the best way to broach the subject with Dean- it probably calls for the brain melting powers of a really thorough blowjob at the very least- while maintaining his focus on the road, that he doesn’t hear Mary wake up next to him, and starts embarrassingly, swerving a little when she unexpectedly speaks.

            “Dad,” she ventures softly, and Sam’s insides do the funny thing that they do on the rare occasion when their alone, and she calls him that. It’s a giddy mixture of pride and love, knowing that no matter what she calls him the rest of the time; that that is what she thinks of him as. In light of what he and Dean are struggling over right now, it’s especially meaningful. He’s too strung out emotion to risk embarrassing himself by his voice doing something funny, so instead he hums noncommittally in response. “The other day, I never got to tell you; Even if you guys think it’s weird or whatever, I think it’s really wonderful that you and Dad have spent so much of your lives together. I think that it means you must really love each other to still put up with one another after so long.” She beams over at him slyly, and in the very image of Dean, gives him a playful wink.

            “I-… thanks, Sweetheart.” He glances over at her, and returns her wink. “If you ever tell your Dad, I’ll have to kill you; but I like to think so too.” They share a warm smile, and settle back into a comfortable silence. Sam’s just in the middle of taking a sip from his travel mug of coffee when she shifts in her seat a bit, and turns to look over at him curiously.

    “Did Dad’s Dad, or Grandpa Bobby…did they ever give you guy’s any trouble? Like, get upset about you and Dad…” She waves her hand vaguely as Sam chokes on his coffee, and sputters inelegantly. “You know.”

            “No- _no_. Um…” Sam can feel his face heating up at an alarming rate as he carefully slips his cup back into its holder and clenches the wheel, fixing his eyes resolutely on the road ahead. Even though their Dad’s been gone for decades, the thought of what John would have done if he would have know about the two of them makes his heart pound unpleasantly. Throw Bobby into the mix too, and the panic reaches nausea-inducing levels. “We never really… it was… not something that we ever talked about with Bobby. And Da-…” He swallows uncomfortably. “Your Grandpa, he died before you kids ever came along, and he wasn’t… it wasn’t something we ever _would_ have talked about.” Sam takes a steadying breath and looks over at her earnestly. Sometimes he’s She frowns, but then nods thoughtfully before continuing.

            “I know you guys have been fighting about something since Grandpa’s funeral… I mean, I don’t know what, but whatever it is… I hope you guys can work it out soon.” As she turns back to stare out her window, she pouts, and for a moment Sam sees the tiny little toddler that barrelled into their lives all those years ago and proceeded to show them just how much they didn’t have things figured out.  “It sucks when you guys fight, y’know?” He reaches out to stroke a hand over her hair gently, and when she closes her eyes, leaning into the touch, Sam’s heart constricts painfully.

            “I know, baby. I hope we can too. I’ll do my best, hey?” She bobs her head and smiles at him, but it’s tight and worry-filled. “Why don’t you try to go back to sleep for a bit until we stop for lunch?” He pats her knee before returning his hand to the wheel. Mary murmurs in assent, twisting the knob on the stereo up a little and settling into a more nap-friendly position. As he stares out the windshield at seemingly endless highway stretching out in front of them, all Sam can think is that he hopes that he’s best will be good enough.


	3. Chapter 3

      Things don’t get any better once they get home. They slip back into their usual day-to-day lives, never talking about the newest problem in the Winchester saga of issues. In fact, they don’t really talk much at all. They go on the same way they had at Bobby’s; barely speaking except when they absolutely need to, Dean off like a shot at with so much as a hint of anything deeper than what groceries they need, or what time Ellie’s soccer game is at. If anything, it’s gotten worse. At night they sleep next to each other silently, firmly on their own sides of the bed now, painfully aware of the gap between them. They give in and reach for each other in the dark sometimes, but the lovemaking is rough and detached. Even the sweat that collects between them feels clammy and cool, not the slick liquid heat it used to be. When Sam bites into his pillow to keep from crying out as Dean thrusts relentlessly into him, rough hands clutching hard at his body and silent lips gasping against the back of his neck, he feels cold. And when he finds himself pinning Dean harshly against the mattress, driving into him just as brutally while Dean violently gropes at anything he can reach, he feels desperate. And as soon as their satisfied, however hollowly, they pull back away from each other. No one notices anything wrong because it’s expected they might be a bit off after such a loss in the family.  
 

      To make matters worse, the problem with one Miss. Julia Foster continues to intensify. Someone more sensitive might back down a little; give them space at such a difficult time in their lives. But with Julie, it’s like a shark scenting blood in the water and circling in for the kill.

      Julia Foster; who made her interest in Dean obvious from the get-go. It’s gotten to the point where just hearing her name makes Sam’s teeth stand on edge. She moved into town in the spring, when she took the Dental Hygienist position that Marni Bridges vacated for maternity leave at Dr. Echols’ practice on Main. She’s the type of perky thirty-something that looks much younger than her age; all blonde, prim and proper, but always showing just enough skin to give her a naughty edge. She made a name for herself fairly quickly; instantly popular with the conservative types in the community. And she’s definitely one of them; though her devotion to being appropriately ‘P.C.’ doesn’t allow her outright admit it. She’s managed to make do with the progressive attitude of the majority of the town, though their attitude toward her reminds of all the high schools he’d drifted through in those four high school- each one with their own overbearing Queen Bee that no one particularly likes, but everyone fears getting on the wrong side of. In fact, she’s a little bit like a high school boy’s fantasy all grown up. One hundred percent selfish bitch, thinly-veiled by a saccharine-sweet, aw-shucks, apple-pie-and-Americana exterior. You know she’ll be a wild cat between the sheets, that she’ll definitely tear you apart and spit you out; but she’ll make you love every second of it and come begging for more.

      So, pretty much exactly Dean’s type. Or, okay, what Sam imagines Dean’s type would have been, in another life. Another life; one where Mom never died, and they grew up cozy in Kansas. Where Dean probably would have been the Captain of the football team, and taken sweet blonde cheerleaders just like Julia to Prom. Where maybe they would have had a couple of siblings, or maybe not; but where he and Sam would never have become what they are. Never been anything more than the ordinary kind of brothers, who’d grow up and grow apart; only really see each other on holidays or Mom’s birthday once college rolled around. The kind of brothers that might share a few beers in the den over a cheesy old horror movie, late at night, when everyone else had gone to bed during Thanksgiving. But they never would have grown so terribly dependent. Never would have developed that painful, itching need for one another, always bubbling beneath the surface. By this age, they’d be watching their kids graduate, go off to college. Maybe be celebrating a milestone anniversary with a wife. Maybe be going through some nasty divorce from one, if Dean’s type really would have drifted towards Julies. And Sam may have put just a little too much obsessive thought into this all. But the point of the matter is that Julia is still a problem. The whole package may only be the masochistic dream-Dean’s ideal woman, but on a shallower level she’s still a smoking hot blonde who’s aggressively raring to go. And far be it from Dean to actively resist a willing woman.

      She’s a staunch Christian, and attends St. Matthew’s Presbyterian with the majority of the town; which is precisely where they first met her. They’re not the normally church-going types, but the family was making one of their rare appearances one warm summer afternoon to graciously attend Rachel and Steve’s nephew’s baptism. As they always are when they drop in, Sam and Dean were essentially ambushed by the female half of the congregation as soon as the service was over and everyone was let loose to trade gossip or pleasantries in the churchyard. There were kids running haphazard all over the place, screams of laughter mingling with the chatter of the adults and teenagers, the sunshine and heat putting everyone in a cheerful mood. Sam was briefly tied up with attending one of the inevitable collisions that end in scraped knees and tears, which is where it all went wrong. By the time he got around to joining Dean, who still insists he was _totally not_ cooing over the new baby with Rachel, her sister and a collective of other women, Julia had already homed in. Not that Sam can really blame her. A drop-dead gorgeous, ridiculously charming older man; not above snuggling an unrelated baby in public- with no woman making her attachment to him obvious? If Sam was a thirty-something single woman with a ticking biological clock, he’d be all over that too. Hell, Sam’s a fifty-two year old man, with four mostly-grown children, (six if you count the dog and cat, which Sam tends to, though he’d never admit that to anyone; _especially_ not Dean) and he _is_ all over that. Nightly. So he holds nothing against anyone enjoying the view. What he doesn't appreciate however, is anyone actually making any sort of attempt to be all over what belongs to him. When he insinuated himself back by Dean’s side and got his own turn with the baby he helpfully dropped as many subtle hinting comments about _their_ babies as possible. It was a fairly juvenile move that Sam’s not particularly proud of; but desperate times and all that jazz.

      It didn’t seem to occur to her at first, however, that Dean living with Sam and, you know, their four children might be indicative of something. It doesn’t take a genius to figure that one out. But even now that she finally has, with the helpful assistance of everyone around town, it hasn’t seemed to slow her down one bit. If anything, she’s been trying harder. Sam has more than a mild suspicion that it has something to do with her wanting to save Dean, and all his gorgeous masculinity, from the sinful gay lifestyle that Sam’s trapped him in.

      It doesn’t require anything more than minor skills of observation to notice how hard she’s gunning for Dean. Even Dean realizes that she’s interested in him. Just how interested she is, not so much. But the basic attraction bit he’s fully and cheerfully aware of. And naturally, being Dean, he doesn’t do much to discourage it either; he thinks it's hilarious, and more than a little flattering. Since the day that Dean turns down some ego stroking and flirtation is the day he’s been replaced by something unholy, Sam can’t say he’s terribly surprised or upset about that. Hell, it is kind of funny, because Dean’s right; you'd expect that the sweet, bookish Sam would be more her type- but she homed straight in on Dean. And Dean has theory for why that is too. Sam remembers Dean joking about it at the town’s Fourth of July barbeque a few months ago, before Bobby passed and everything went downhill.

 

  


       _They were sprawled side by side in their lawn-chairs next to the family’s blanket at the park, just the two of them, enjoying the cool shade provided by a little cluster of trees; a rare moment of semi-privacy from the all the commotion. Most of the town was there, and the party was in full swing. The kids were off mingling with their friends somewhere in the crowd, and he and Dean were unapologetically enjoying the sight of all the sundresses and gorgeous, tanned, toned legs out on display. (Because settled down or not, they weren’t dead.) They’d caught sight of Julia chatting with some church friends of hers off in the crowd, and Dean had helpfully shared his theory on why she was so infatuated with him._

 _“I bet she's that secretly kinky type Sammy. You know- she probably likes to be held down or something. And I’ve got that rugged, manly thing going, so she probably thinks I’m a good candidate for the job. Plus, let’s face it; the ladies still can’t resist this face.” He’d leered at Sam ridiculously, and topped it off with playful wink. Sam had rolled his eyes in return, sighing exasperatedly at how, in some ways, Dean hadn’t at all changed over the years._

 _“Oh my god Dean. Reality. Porn. Separate things.”_

 _“Of course she's pretty off there too. Not about the face part, but y’know; you’re the one who's all into the rough stuff.” Dean had paused for a beat to dramatically ponder the subject, those absurdly gorgeous lips pursed thoughtfully. Despite his show of annoyance, Sam’s dick had taken a pretty solid interest in the images that Dean’s musing was conjuring. “I guess it's usually you control freak types-”_

 _“Deeean!” He remembers leaning close and whispering in Dean's ear- “I’m going to show you just how much of a control freak I am when we get home.” And Dean had flushed, but not without the slightest hint of a smirk, and Sam knew right then that he’d just played perfectly into a sneaky little plan. Not that he’d minded. Especially not when Dean had reached out his big, warm hand and rubbed teasingly along Sam’s thigh in the dark while they watched the fireworks explode overhead. And he’d definitely made good on his words later that night, once they’d meandered their way home from the park afterward.  
_  
 

  


      That night was good an example as any of the ridiculous situation they’re in. As long as they’re alone, or somewhere no one knows them, Dean can find a fine balance between being brothers and being lovers; comfortable enough in their relationship that he’ll happily manoeuvre Sam into sexual escapades with a little cleverly timed innuendo. But throw them into any sort of social situation here at home, and that bravado vanishes. Suddenly Sam is just his Sam. No back-story or elaboration provided. Sure, Dean never calls the kids anything but ‘theirs’ and anyone with more than two brain cells to rub together can draw conclusions from that, and usually do. That’s the only real public concession though, and a thoughtless one at that; because despite his insecurities, Dean’s not the type to over-think things quite that much. But, in all the years since they finally gave in and stopped fighting this crazy thing between them, Sam’s only ever been his partner, by either definition, if their on a case somewhere. And Sam’s had enough.

 

  


* * *

  


  


  
      It takes a good week to finally get Dean alone, and Sam knows that he’d be lying to himself if he didn’t acknowledge at least part of the problem was his having to work up the courage. For all their practice, Sam’s not particularly good at fighting with Dean. No matter how hard he tries to choose his words, they always seem to come out all wrong, and Dean’s not exactly the calm and understanding type. Things usually head downhill like they’ve got rollerblades strapped on, and no idea how to use the brakes. But it’s got to be done, so he bites the bullet and ambushes Dean when he’s working in the garage after dinner late one night.

      Dean has his back to the door, their old lawn mower gutted on his work bench, hands black with grease and oil, and Sam feels a tug of warm, familiar lust watching the way he manoeuvres them deftly to get at whatever he’s fixing. Dean’s hearing isn’t quite what it used to be, and he hasn’t clued in on Sam’s presence yet, so Sam leans against the frame of the door for a moment to watch silently; the calm before the storm. Dean’s always had a way with his hands, the way that Sam’s always been good with books. Those hands have patched up Sam’s wounds more times than he can count, and made his body ache in entirely more pleasant ways almost as often. They’ve learned every inch of his body one way or another; just as gentle and deft when they’re covered in blood or sweat as when they’re slathered with grease like now. Sam’s always had a fascination with Dean’s hands. All strength and infinite gentleness inextricably wrapped up together.

      Of course, they have just as much capacity for cruelty, for brutality and destruction, as they do for soothing and creating. He had firsthand experience. He pushes away from the doorway and clears his throat.

      Dean tries to hide his surprise, but Sam notices the little start of his hands against the innards of the mower. He reaches for the rag on the bench next to him and turns toward Sam calmly, wiping the grease from his hands as the internal shields snap into place. He may have been startled, but he’s not surprised to see Sam here. Not really. Sam offers him a rueful smile of acknowledgement, and he returns it. They both know they can’t avoid this forever.

      “So, I think it’s time we finally talked.” Sam starts it, tugging the door closed behind him and crossing his arms as he leans back against it slightly.

      “I guess it is.” Dean sighs, reaching back to the table behind him for his beer. “Wanna sit?” He asks, gesturing mildly toward the other bench across from him.

      “Nah, I’m good. Thanks.” Sam replies and Dean gives him the good old ‘suit yourself’ shrug as he takes a pull from his bottle. Sam takes a deep, fortifying breath before plunging right in. He almost surprised himself with how everything just comes barrelling out. “Dean, this whole situation is ridiculous. We’ve lived here together for twenty-three years. As far anyone here knows, we’re not related; but we have three children, two of whom were born _after_ we moved here, with y'know, no moms in sight. And we go to barbeques and parties and out for dinner with _each other_. That’s a hell of a lot more to go on than two dudes travelling around together, and I’m pretty sure you remember what people used to assume all the time back then. Do you honestly think that everyone doesn’t already think that we’re gay? At best they just think we’re really, really insecure about it.”

      “Well, if that’s the case then Sammy, why the sudden urge to put on a song and dance about it, huh?” Dean spreads his arms wide in irritation, setting his chin forward mulishly. It sends a spike of anger through Sam, and he can’t help but gesture back; waving his hands in frustration instead of wrapping them around Dean’s shoulders to shake him like he really wants.

      “Oh my god, are you kidding me? Are you just really dense or deliberately forgetful? I've _told_ you before, and my reasons haven’t changed. Because I want to be able to talk about you the way Rachel talks about Steve, without having to be careful that I don’t say the wrong thing. I’d like to be able to occasionally hold your hand, or even just touch you in public. Because while it’s a bit late for Mary and Johnny, I’d like you to be able to adopt Ellie, so that we both have legal rights over her. Because I don't want to deal with another mess like that time you had the accident and they didn't want to let me into your room.” He pauses with a sigh and reaches up to bitterly run his hand through his hair where it’s fallen forward into his face. “We gave up being brothers- the _only_ thing that tied us together, as far as the world’s concerned- so that we could stop hiding. If you don’t ever want to admit what we are to each other, than what was the point?”

      Dean scowls at his words, and Sam feels a swell of relief to see that they have some effect. It’s a brief reprieve though, because the scowl quickly turns angry and determined as Dean pushes up from his spot on the bench to point an accusing finger.

      “Do _I_ have to repeat myself too Sam? I guess I’m not the only one being dense. I told you before; you’re my brother and I -” He snaps out. And Sam can’t keep himself from him cutting him off.

      “Who’s going to know Dean? Really. We’ve made it a point to avoid anyone who might remember the Winchester _brothers_ ,” He scoffs. “If any of them are even alive anymore.”

      He feels so smug, so sure of himself and how right he is, that it takes him a moment to see the stricken, pained look that enters Dean’s eyes. When Dean opens his mouth to reply and hesitates, looking away, Sam knows they’re going to be words he doesn’t want to hear.

      “I just… _I’ll_ know.”The words are soft, whispered, and Dean refuses to meet his gaze. Sam can feel the bottom of his stomach dropping away. Dean shuffles in little circles as he talks; he’s always been one prone to itchy feet when something’s eating at him. “It’s not the gay thing Sam. I know you think it is, but really, it isn’t. It’s the whole, you’re my goddamn baby brother and I’m a fucking freak for wanting you the way I do thing. I’m happy with you, I am. I just… every time I let go and try to just pretend that everything is normal between us… I can’t. All I can think sometimes is what people would think- what they’d do, if they ever found out the truth.” His voice is rough and hoarse, like he’s been screaming for hours, and he scrabbles at his hair harshly. “I don’t want to feel guilty Sam, I don’t. But I do. Sometimes when I’m touching you, or you’re touching me, I think about it without meaning to, and I feel sick. Like, nauseous, man. I’m not aiming for that, and I can push it down and ignore it and go right back to loving every fucking second of it. But it still happens.”

      Dean lets his hands fall down for a moment, turns them palms up in front of himself. Those hands that Sam loves so much. And he stares down at them with something a little like horror. And Sam really doesn’t want to hear this. He’s already wishing he could take this argument back, but it’s too late, but Dean keeps talking, and his gut is twisting into painful knots.

      “So, if I can’t even go to bed with you, in private, without feeling a little self-disgust from time to time, how the hell am I supposed to walk around in public, and hold your hand and look all these people who know us and trust us, in the face and pretend that everything’s great? That we’re just a normal, happy, suburban family.” He rubs a palm over his face, presses it over his mouth like he’s trying to hold the words back. He looks up at Sam finally, meets his eyes, and he looks so exposed; completely and utterly wretched.

      “This is different. This isn’t about protecting innocent people from the monster in the closet, or the big bad in the dark so that they can go on living their happy, carefree lives. This is about hiding the monster inside me.”

       They stand there in silence for what feels like forever, until Sam finally finds his tongue. He can feel anger; bitter resignation and something that feels like hysteria bubbling up inside of him. He licks his lips before speaking. When did they get so dry?

      “What about me Dean? You know goddamn well I feel the exact same way about you. That I want to touch you and hold you and kiss you and _fuck_ you, just as much as you want to do it to me. Are you saying that I’m a sick freak too?” He stops and a pained laugh escapes his throat. “Oh wait- that’s right- I’m a monster anyways, aren’t I? So it doesn’t make much difference, hey?”

      Dean growls at that, stepping forward with hands outstretched, reaching, before he obviously thinks better of it, and they fall to his sides, clenched in fists.

      “Goddamnit Sam. That’s not- no. I don’t think you’re a freak or a monster or… I’m you’re big brother Sammy. I never should have let this happen, but I was weak and I did, and now I’ve got to pay the piper, okay? Can you just leave well enough alone Sam? We're happy like this. Nobody asks questions. What’s wrong with things the way they are?” He sounds so desperate, and needy that for a moment Sam wants to just give in. Let him win. But he knows he can’t. The determination settles in his veins, and he feels a bit like he did clutching an acceptance letter in a sweaty hand; a bit like he did standing at the edge of that pit looking down into the abyss. And isn’t that just ridiculous?

       “No, Dean, I… When we moved here and I became ‘Sam Wesson’ I thought that I was giving up my identity so that we could finally be a real couple, not just temporarily, in the little two-bit towns we’d stay in for a few days on a case, where nobody knew our names. Something permanent and _real_ , where people could get to know us, but never think or suspect that there was anything wrong with our relationship. And I thought that’s what we had here Dean, I thought it was just the little nitty-gritty detail of hiding it from Bobby. But I guess I was wrong. And I just, I can’t live like this anymore. I love you; but I can’t hide something so fundamentally a part of who I am for the rest of my life.”

       “Well, if you can’t live like this- what’s stopping you from walking out that door, huh Sammy?” The words are breathed more than spoken; bitter old ghosts lingering in them.

       “I don’t know Dean, what is? Do you have any ideas? Because I’m starting to have a hard time coming up with any,” Sam hears himself snap back. The second the words leave his mouth, he wants to snatch them back. Yank them out of the air before they reach Dean’s ears. But it’s too late, and he can feel regret sinking like a hot stone in his gut. Dean’s voice is entirely transformed; clipped and hard and cold like it hasn’t been in decades.

      “Fine Sam. Go ahead. Running away is what your best at anyways, isn’t it? You just took a longer breather this time. Nothing is ever good enough for you.”

      “Jesus Dean, we never really change do we?” Sam laughs in reply, and there’s no mistaking it for anything _but_ hysterical. “Same argument, different words. Just constantly rehashing it over and over again, like a dog chasing its tail. I mean, listen to us; we’re just having the exact same argument we had at Bobby’s. Which was just a bad remake of what everything we were fighting about when you came back from Hell; and _that_ was really just another version of what we were fighting about before I left for Stanford. Except this time there’s no need to stop the apocalypse that’ll force us to patch things up. It’s like our relationship is just a big merry-go-round of want, and blame, and guilt. You know what Dean, when you’re ready to decide- when you’re ready to just let go of the freaking guilt already, then I’ll be waiting.”

      “You won’t wait forever Sammy,” Dean counters, never one to give up the fight gracefully.

      “All these years, and you still can’t give me credit for knowing what I want.” Sam yanks open the door and starts out, pausing for a second with his hand on the knob to throw a glance back at Dean. “I’ll be sleeping in my room tonight, so don’t wait up for me.”

      And then he’s gone.  
 

  


  


* * *

  


  


      If Sam thought things between them were chilly before, well, then nuclear winter’s rolled in. He’d thought- hoped- that the rare occurrence of sleeping separately would have more weight behind it, and sway Dean at least mildly in his favour. But if Dean’s missing him at all, he’s doing a damn good job of hiding it. Not that Sam sees all that much of him to really judge the performance. Dean’s been wrapped up, or probably more accurately, has been wrapping himself up in, work; his crews tied up with a couple different projects in town and the city. And Sam’s not any better. It’s moved into term paper and exam season on Campus, and he still has his own research to work on, so he’s been burning the candle steadily on both ends keeping on top of it all. Or that’s what he tells himself. If he’s been a bit more dedicated to his work, or chosen to toil away in his office at the University instead of at home more than usual, it’s just coincidence. But the nights are lonely, and despite them spending next to no time together in it, the house suddenly feels too small for the both of them.

      When he catches himself circling rental ads in the morning paper, he knows it’s time for them to talk again. He’s a little ashamed of how he handles it. Leaving a post-it stuck to the paper- folded open to the very same circled classifieds- with the message ‘we need to talk’ scrawled across it next to the coffee pot in the morning is pretty cowardly. Not what one would expect of a man who’s faced down monsters and demons and freaking Lucifer himself. But he’s got his Achilles’ heel just like everyone else, as Dean so helpfully pointed out all those years ago.

      When Dean looks up at him expressionlessly over breakfast with the kids that weekend and says, “I got your note. In the den after we finish eating work for you?” Sam is actually confused for a moment about what he means, startled by the simple occasion of Dean speaking actual words to him, instead of the recent litany of grunts. But he catches himself quickly enough, and nods spastically in reply, trying not to choke on his eggs.

      As soon as they’re all done eating, they leave the kids in charge of cleaning up, and head upstairs to the den with a couple beers in hand. They settle in, Dean on the loveseat across from Sam’s armchair in front of the fireplace, and stare each other down uneasily. Dean looks away first, crossing his ankles and staring down between his spread knees, where he’s restlessly passing his bottle back and forth between his hands. Sam’s heart thumps painfully in his chest, and he finds himself fidgeting with his own bottle, peeling the label away from the glass as Dean clears his throat.

      “So, you, uh … you’re looking at apartments in town?” He ventures roughly, still avoiding Sam’s eyes. Sam swallows and nods tightly.

      “Yeah, well, I thought maybe… we could both use some space. See how we feel about it and go from there. You know; a sort of trial separation.” He has to focus hard to keep his voice calm and even. It’s amazing really, how much he feels like an insecure boy all over again.

      “Ah. Okay then,” Dean shrugs carelessly. “It’s a good idea I guess.”

      Which _really?_ No, it’s really not, Sam wants to yell back. In fact, he kind of wants to get right up into Dean’s face and scream and yell and cry. He wants to clench his hands into fists and drive them into Dean’s casually disinterested face and pound sense into him. Pound the same need and desire and dependence that Sam feels back into him, everything that Sam knows Dean used to feel too; because clearly he lost it somewhere along the way. Instead he barrels onward, like this is some sort of sick game of chicken, and he can’t help but keep playing even though he’s terrified of winning.

      “So if we’re really going to do this, we should talk about what to do with the house, down the road.” God, he doesn’t want to give up the house; it’s the only home he’s ever had. “The kids aren’t going to be around that much longer; Mary and Harley’ll move out after the wedding, I mean, Ellie will probably want to keep living at home for a while, especially since she’s talking about going studying in my department on campus when she finishes high school. But this is a lot of space for just two people, a dog and a cat. I mean, there’s no need to rush things; that little place that I found for myself should be fine for now. I dunno, I guess I could look for a place in the city, closer to campus, but I’d prefer to stay here in town.” There’s a little creak of a floorboard outside the door, almost undetectable, and Sam thinks for a moment that he sees a shadow pass beneath it. But then it’s gone, and he’s sure he didn’t hear any of the kids coming up the steps, so it’s probably just his mind playing tricks on him again. It’s been a regular occurrence over the years; a lingering, if astoundingly mild, side-effect of his incredibly damaged psyche. It’s nothing short of amazing that he’s managed to bounce back as well as he has, and he counts his blessings that he’s anything other than a gibbering vegetable, really, much less as stable and functioning as he is. But still, it never hurts to be cautious, so he gets up briefly to push the door shut, feeling secure as soon as the iron and salt-laced barrier clicks into place.

      “Yeah, of course, whatever you want to do Sam. I’m not going to stop you.” Dean grumbles with a resigned sigh, scrubbing his hand over his face tiredly, as Sam just stands there miserably staring down at him.

      “Okay.” Sam sighs frustratedly, blowing his bangs out of his face with an uncomfortable little puff. He wants desperately for them to just be brothers again, just for a moment. He just wants to talk to him brother and tell him everything he’s afraid of. And then Dean’ll make it all better, the way he always used to. “This is so weird.”

      “You’re telling me. Anyways, we can’t go selling the place until we do something about the little additions that we’ve made over the years. I mean, we don’t have to do anything about the most of the Devil’s Traps, or the salt lines and the iron; hell, it can’t hurt to leave a little extra protection for whatever poor schmuks move in after us. But the rest…well, I can’t imagine our little Hunter’s Home Improvement would go over too well on the real estate market.” Dean leans forward, looking him in the face now, casually, almost comfortable, like this is all well and good and nothing’s out of the ordinary. Sam could almost lose himself to it, pretend that they’re just having a normal everyday conversation.

      “Yeah, you’re totally right. I’ll uh, pull up the blue prints, figure out where everything is, and what we need to get rid of; make a list. I think they’re around here somewhere.” Sam wanders over toward his desk, pulls open its biggest drawer and sorts through its contents. He finds what he’s looking for quickly enough and pulls them out, dropping them onto the desktop. “Here they are.”

      “That would be good. Then I can figure out what do about it all. I might be able to get some of my boys in for some of it, depending.”

      “Sounds good. Well, I’ll get right on that then. “

      “Okay then.” Dean’s voice has a tone of finality to it, and Sam starts toward him determinedly, realizing this is his last chance to try and turn the conversation.

      “Dean, I-”

      Dean cuts him off before he can even really begin.

      “Look Sam, I’m not really in the mood for a heart to heart right now. If we’re done here, I’ve got to go take care of some things. Baby needs an oil change, and your Jeep’s been making that funny sound I’ve still gotta take a look at.”

      “Oh. Okay. Um, thanks.” Sam collapses awkwardly back into his seat, unsure of what else to do with himself.

      “Don’t mention it.” Dean stands up, clapping at his knees absently, striding toward the door without a second thought. “Let me know when you’ve got that list ready for me.” He tosses back as he opens the door and marches out, the words punctuated by the soft click of the door behind him. Sam just sits and stares at the door for a while, feeling completely lost. Dean’s so utterly calm about this all that Sam can’t help but feel just a little panicked. It always seemed completely impossible, but now he wonders if maybe, just maybe, Dean’s finally had enough. Maybe his boundless devotion to Sam is finally just all burned up, and he’s just tired of this thing between them; hell maybe he just misses women. A hot, prickly feeling wells up behind his eyes, and the room swims in front of him. All Sam knows for sure is that everything’s gone spectacularly wrong. And, he thinks, as he reaches down and opens up the little side cabinet next to him, pulling out the ever-present bottle of whiskey, is that this calls for a drink.  
 

  


  


* * *

  


  


      Everything’s taken on a sort of fuzziness around the edges, but Sam’s pretty sure that he didn’t imagine the knocking on the door. With a swiftness born of lifetime of hiding things, he tucks the whiskey bottle down on the floor next to his chair where it’ll be neatly hidden from the view of anyone by the door. Then he grabs the first book at hand and opens it up to a random page. All of this is slightly harder than it should normally be, so he probably had a little bit more of that bottle than he realized, but the hell with it. Planning out the details of separating from your life partner of...well, _your entire goddamn life_ is the kind of thing that gives you a free pass for drinking your face off. He calls out a welcome, and slumps down a little lower in his chair to keep the room from spinning too much.

      The door swings open slowly, and Johnny’s head pops in through the opening as soon as it’s wide enough.

       "Hey Uncle Sam, how’s it going? I was wondering if you had that info on Gris-gris bags together for me yet." He practically goddamn chirps, and isn’t it too early for Johnny to be so perky? What time is it anyways? Besides, Sam can’t think of anything to be so cheerful about anyways. He has to think hard for a moment to figure out whether or not he has the information Johnny needs or not, and where he might have put it. He thinks it sounds vaguely familiar, and either way, the best bet is somewhere on or around his desk, so he waves his hand in its general direction.

       "Oh... Yeah, it's over there ...somewhere."

      Johnny ambles over to the desk and shuffles the papers strewn across it around.

       "Hey, you and Dad thinking of doing some home reno or something?" He asks casually as he looks beneath the blueprints Sam left laying there for the research he needs, and Sam can’t help but let out a snort. Yeah, home reno. He really freaking wishes it were that simple. Johnny glances back over his shoulder at him, startled, and Sam realizes he should probably make some effort to hide this from the kids for now.

       "Something like that. Thinking about maybe selling… now that you kids are older. Just figuring out what sort of work needs to be done if it gets to that. Which reminds me, we'll have to call up the lawyers soon about it," Sam is shooting for casual vagueness, but his tongue feels thick and clumsy, and he’s not entirely sure if he’s slurring, or not. And he feels like he’s choking on the miserable frustration clotting thick in his throat with the words, and he’d really, really like not to start tearing up again in front of their son. That particular desire seems to require a herculean amount of focus at the moment however, and he’s fairly certain that normally, social deceit requires a little more interaction, but this _is_ Johnny. As long as he looks focused enough on the book in his lap, he should be safe.

      "Ookaay." Johnny drawls back, and apparently he finds what he was looking for, because he suddenly shouts “Bingo!” and waves something in the air. Good. Sam was pretty sure he’d gotten that research together for him.

       "Right. So, I'm gonna," Johnny gestures towards the door, "...go then. Thanks." He adds quickly as he backs out the door and Sam waves a hand limply in farewell, grateful to be left alone again.

 

  


  


* * *

  


  


  
      "You are _exactly_ like Dad!"

      As he steps in through the side door and heads down the hall toward the kitchen, Dean can make out Mary`s voice, keyed up and belligerent, carrying out the archway. But he only manages to catch that glorious tidbit at the tail end of her sentence when he gets close enough, because his hearing really isn`t what it used to be. Which okay, makes him feel a little old. But hey; if that`s the price one pays for appreciating good music- and occasionally kicking some noisy monster ass- well; bring it. He`s paid worse.

       “Exactly like me, how? By being such a handsome devil?” Dean can’t resist butting in with a grin as he steps into the kitchen. The kids go dead silent instantly, all red faced and round-eyed, and he has an awkward sinking suspicion that something involving sex may have been the topic at hand. Annnd _that_ he has absolutely zero interest in joining in on. Teasing banter aside, he’s actually pretty uncomfortable with the concept of sex and his kids being anything but completely exclusive of each other. Heck, even with Johnny, he only feels macho fatherly pride for about two point five seconds before squeamishness sets in. As for the girls, he doesn’t even want to _think_ about thinking about it. So he definitely has no desire to willingly enter into any sort of group discussion on the topic with them. Even less so with the boy who’s planning on _marrying_ his baby girl. Judging by Harley’s sudden fascination with his beer, Dean’s fairly certain that the kid likewise has no desire to chat with his future father-in-law about it either. Luckily, if there’s anything that Dean’s an expert at its evasive manoeuvres, so he makes an intent beeline for the fridge before anyone feels the need to answer him. Of course, a cursory inspection of the fridge raises an entirely new concern, which he may as well take advantage of.

      "What the hell? You guys are drinking all my beer! Your better get me some more by tomorrow. There is no way I'm making it through Christmas without beer. And pie. You drink all my beer, you better get me some pie." He grabs one of the last bottles from the fridge before turning to glower at them with as much Dad-power as possible. Avoidance of offspring sex-talk _and_ pie and beer? Never let it be said that Dean Winchester can’t make the best out of a bad situation.

       "We'll get you your beer and your pie Dad, don't worry," Mary beams up at him, all sunshine and sweetness. At least he and Sam raised one of them right.

      "I dunno if you need any more pie though old man, you’re really starting to let yourself go in your old age, hey?" Harley adds with a smirk, and Dean reaches down to feel his stomach self-consciously without thinking.

      "Let myself- I’m not!" Then he realizes what he’s doing and glowers down at Harley with righteous indignation. _The little shit._ "Old? You calling me old?! Keep that talk up and you'll be marrying my little girl over my dead body!"

      "Well, at the rate you’re going at, I just might be," Harley grins wider, and rocks back in his chair, almost losing his balance when Mary swats at him with a giggle. Seeing them so happy and carefree makes Dean feel embarrassingly warm and fuzzy inside, and he has to work to maintain an appropriately grumpy father expression.

      Ellie doesn’t so much as crack a smile, and that cinches it. If there`s one thing he knows, it`s his little girl; and she’s upset about something. He crosses the kitchen in a couple strides and strokes the top of her head. Her thick brown hair is soft against his palm, and he can’t help but marvel for a second how big their little girl has gotten. Her whole head used to fit neatly into his palm, warm and sweetly baby-scented, capped by downy little wisps instead of the thick mane she has now.

      "What'sa matter, baby girl?" He asks, giving a little tug on a lock of it. He’s struck suddenly by how perfect a reproduction of Sammy’s angsty teenage bitchface the little twist of her mouth is, and the words jump out of his mouth before he even has time to think them. “You look just like your Dad when you’re all mopey.” And that was the worst possible thing to say, because then she turns her face up to beam at him, suddenly sweetness and sunshine, it only reminds him even more of Sam; memories flooding in to make his stomach twist unpleasantly and bring on a hot prickle on behind his eyes.

      He pulls his hand back the way he would from the too-warm surface of the Impala in mid-summer, and rubs it against the worn-soft denim of his jeans, as if he can scrub away the feelings if he rubs hard enough. But it doesn`t appear to work that way, and the sharp, painful lump in his throat only grows bigger and harder to swallow around. And damn it, he is not going to drag this out in front of his kids. He`s not going to put this on them, in any way; he is not going to be like his father. He clutches the cool, sweating bottle a little tighter in his hand, and tries his goddamn best to keep his voice carefully neutral.

       "I'm gonna go back out to work on the Impala some more." Even as he chokes the words out, he`s moving, feet carrying him swiftly out the doorway. Not that it helps any; the memories are Winchester through and through; relentless and unflinching. There`s no hope of ever outrunning them.

  



End file.
